


A Study in Scarlet

by beatingheartofstone



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Brief Implied/Referenced Suicide, Dubious Morality, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Jason Todd, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Killling, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Whump, Whumptober 2020, morality issues, morality questions, vigilantes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatingheartofstone/pseuds/beatingheartofstone
Summary: Whumptober 2020 Prompt: They look so pretty when they bleed—Post-patrol, Jason cleans the blood off himself and contemplates life, death, morality, and justice.(Aka: With the pit madness gradually leaving him, Jason struggles with his status as a killer and tries — unsuccessfully — to not freak out.)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	A Study in Scarlet

Blood coats his hands in a vibrantly incriminating splash of red. Only some of it is his — seeped out from scratched knuckles and mingling as one with the rest. Some of it is from bloodied noses, or spit from bit cheeks. 

Some of it is from dead men. 

The blood's in his jacket, too, in ugly prints where he'd brushed his hands or splashes where it had spattered, soaked and stained into the fibers; and on his pants, and smeared in a streak on his helmet. Specks fleck the top of his boots, and in the grooves on the bottom flakes must be drying. The rest he had tried to wipe out on the mat outside the apartment, a morbidly fitting sign of welcome for a place like this in Gotham.

He tosses his jacket off to the corner of the bathroom in a pile with a molding towel and last night's clothes. Later, he'll go through the grueling process of cleaning it until only a few faded stains remain, a skill he's gotten quite familiar with lately. His hands are a more pressing matter.

The water runs bright red for the first few moments with the sheer amount of blood. He scrubs his hands vigorously, scraping at the browning bits which cling tightly to his skin. It's almost hideously beautiful, that swirl of water whirling down the drain; scarlet like roses, the color of life and love and vitality. Blood is gory, unsettling. It churns stomachs and makes people flinch away, or lick their lips with sadistic anticipation. It's artful; dramatic, even poetic. It's common as dirt and half as useful. 

The water fades to pink, and then clear. Jason lets it run, washing again and again with soap until mountains of foam build up over the drain. His hands are spotless, bloodless, as pale as death.

He closes his eyes. His breath comes in — one long draw — and then out — one slow exhale. His hands shake under rippling water. A bitter, iron tang hits his nose, and acid bubbles in his throat. He killed a man. He wants to throw up. 

God knows the monster deserved it. Inhuman filth, selling people, _kids_ — he ruined lives. Killed people. And he'd done his time for it, sure: a scant few months in jail, before he was back out and taking lives again. His death would prevent so many others. 

It has no _right_ to cling to Jason as it does. 

Madness is not the kind of thing you'd think you'd miss. Animalistic fury, loss of clear thought, logic ever ready to fly out the window... Who wants that? But it made it easy, so _easy,_ to do his job. Anger doesn't twist you like guilt does. Fury doesn't rattle you like fear. A life in the moment doesn't dredge up images of the time before and morph the faces of your loved ones into disgust and disappointment. 

Bruce was so, _so_ upset with him. Bruce thought _he_ was a monster, and maybe he was right — Jason knows what he damns others to. Jason had _died_ himself, and now he rips lives from others as it was ripped from him. Does that make him exactly what he's fighting? Will he have to turn on himself, someday, when ( _if_ ) he finally finishes with the rest? 

His hands grip the cold rim of the sink. His thumbs brush its rough edges, the small dips where parts had chipped away. He breaths in — one long, long draw — and out. The smell of blood still hangs heavily in the air. 

Gotham has no shortage of monsters. Gotham will never have a shortage of monsters, so long as nothing changes. They poison the atmosphere, the ground, the lives of so many, and twist more and more monsters out of innocents. Something needs to stop them. Something needs to give. 

And what more can you give than your life?

He braces himself for a moment longer on the sink and then stands tall, picks up his jacket, and starts once more on the difficult process of removing the blood stains. It occupies the time at least with work he can keep his mind on, even if the preservation process is never truly successful. 

He'll only get it bloody again tomorrow, after all. 


End file.
